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      "He, coming thither in that haunted place,

      Stoops low to quaff cool waters, when his face

      Meets gurgling fairy faces in a ring

      That jostle upward babbling; beckoning

      Him deep to wonders secret built of old

      By some dim witch: 'A city walled with gold,

      With beryl battlements and paved with pearls,

      Slim, lambent towers wrought of foamy swirls

      Of alabaster, and that witch to love,

      More beautiful to love than queens above.' —

      He pauses troubled, but a wizard power,

      In all his bronzen harness that mad hour

      Plunges him – whither? what if he should miss

      Those cloudy beauties and that creature's kiss?

      Ah, Morgane, that same power Accolon

      Saw potent in thine eyes and it hath drawn

      Him deep to plunge – and to what breathless fate? —

      Bliss? – which, too true, he hath well quaffed of late!

      But, there! – may come what stealthy-footed Death

      With bony claws to clutch away his breath!

      And make him loveless to those eyes, alas! —

      Fain must I speak that vision; thus it was:

      "In sleep one plucked me some warm fleurs-de-lis,

      Larger than those of earth; and I might see

      Their woolly gold, loose, webby woven thro', —

      Like fluffy flames spun, – gauzy with fine dew.

      And 'asphodels!' I murmured; then, 'these sure

      The Eden amaranths, so angel pure

      That these alone may pluck them; aye and aye!

      But with that giving, lo, she passed away

      Beyond me on some misty, yearning brook

      With some sweet song, which all the wild air took

      With torn farewells and pensive melody

      Touching to tears, strange, hopeless utterly.

      So merciless sweet that I yearned high to tear

      Those ingot-cored and gold-crowned lilies fair;

      Yet over me a horror which restrained

      With melancholy presence of two pained

      And awful, mighty eyes that cowed and held

      Me weeping while that sad dirge died or swelled

      Far, far on endless waters borne away:

      A wild bird's musick smitten when the ray

      Of dawn it burned for graced its drooping head,

      And the pale glory strengthened round it dead;

      Daggered of thorns it plunged on, blind in night,

      The slow blood ruby on its plumage white.

      "Then, then I knew these blooms which she had given

      Were strays of parting grief and waifs of Heaven

      For tears and memories; too delicate

      For eyes of earth such souls immaculate!

      But then – my God! my God! thus these were left!

      I knew then still! but of that song bereft —

      That rapturous wonder grasping after grief —

      Beyond all thought – weak thought that would be thief."

      And bowed and wept into his hands and she

      Sorrowful beheld; and resting at her knee

      Raised slow her oblong lute and smote its chords;

      But ere the impulse saddened into words

      Said: "And didst love me as thy lips have spake

      No visions wrought of sleep might such love shake.

      Fast is all Love in fastness of his power,

      With flame reverberant moated stands his tower;

      Not so built as to chink from fact a beam

      Of doubt and much less of a doubt from dream;

      Such, the alchemic fires of Love's desires,

      Which hug this like a snake, melt to gold wires

      To chord the old lyre new whereon he lyres."

      So ceased and then, sad softness in her eye

      Sang to his dream a questioning reply:

      "Will love grow less when dead the roguish Spring,

      Who from gay eyes sowed violets whispering;

      Peach petals in wild cheeks, wan-wasted thro'

      Of withering grief, laid lovely 'neath the dew,

      Will love grow less?

      "Will love grow less when comes queen Summer tall,

      Her throat a lily long and spiritual;

      Rich as the poppied swaths – droned haunts of bees —

      Her cheeks, a brown maid's gleaning on the leas,

      Will love grow less?

      "Will love grow less when Autumn sighing there

      Broods with long frost streaks in her dark, dark hair;

      Tears in grave eyes as in grave heavens above,

      Deep lost in memories' melancholy, love,

      Will love grow less?

      "Will love grow less when Winter at the door

      Begs on her scant locks icicles as hoar;

      While Death's eyes hollow o'er her shoulder dart

      A look to wring to tears then freeze the heart,

      Will love grow less?"

      And in her hair wept softly and her breast

      Rose and was wet with tears; like as, distressed,

      Night steals on Day rain sobbing thro' her curls.

      "Tho' tears become thee even as priceless pearls,

      Weep not for love's sake! mine no gloom of doubt,

      But woe for sweet love's death such dreams brought out.

      Nay, nay; crowned, throned and flame-anointed he

      Kings our twin-kingdomed hearts eternally.

      Love, high in Heaven beginning and to cease

      No majesty when hearts are laid at peace;

      But reign supreme, if souls have wrought as well,

      A god in Heaven or a god in Hell.

      Yea, Morgane, for the favor of his face

      All our rich world of love I will retrace:

      "Hurt in that battle where thy brother strove

      With those five kings thou wot'st of, dearest love,

      Wherein the five were worsted, I was brought

      To some king's castle on my shield, methought, —

      Out of the grind of spears and roar of swords,

      From the loud shields of battle-bloody lords,

      Culled from the mountained

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